The Walk of Shame

This morning at ten I woke with a fright

Shocked and confused at what I did last night

It started out great I felt more than coherent

And now I’m faced with calling my parents

I hopelessly grope around the dark room

Trying to find my socks and left shoe

Not bothering to change from last night’s clothes

In too much of a rush to walk on tip toes.

But I guess that’s the price of not being cool

Staying up late to study made me late for school.

            In my poem, “The Walk of Shame”, I include many details which strengthen the uncomfortable tone throughout. Firstly, the title of my poem indicates awkwardness as many people in today’s society associate that phrase with something many people feel hesitant to discuss. The morals of today have trained people to think of the walk of shame as something to regret which I use in the obvious diction of “shame” to further my poem’s discomfort. In addition, my phrasing of “I woke with a fright”, laced with a shocked tone, implies regret for the consequences of the previous night, leaving the audience to imagine the different scenarios (1). This vagueness of this phrase in addition to others such as “Not bothering to change” creates a sense of suspense as I leave the interpretation solely up to the reader’s imagination (7). I believe that my stylistic technique to leave out punctuation until the final two lines puts the reader into the poem as they feel the frantic tone and continue reading without a pause, similarly to how the speaker feels in the poem. Finally, I think that the ending of the poem spares the reader from complete discomfort as I ease their imaginations with the true actions of the night and the purpose of the frazzled feeling the next morning. No one can relate to the walk of shame coming into school late quite like I can.

 

A Letter to a Friendless, Gender Confused Eleven-Year-Old

Dear pre-teen Blythe,

            I will start off by asking you a simple question. What are you thinking?! Now, I hope that does not strike you as too harsh, but I feel that I must implement tough love and take drastic measures in handling this very awkward phase. Where do I even begin? Well, let us start at the top. Your hair. Eleven year-old Blythe, that has to go, you look like a boy. I promise that everything will turn out alright if you stray from the china doll, pin straight hair complete with bangs (Foreshadowed Warning: DO NOT go back to them in eighth grade, they will not look any better in three years, trust me). On the topic of looking like a male…please for the sake of your dignity stop shopping in the boy department of Gap and Old Navy, camouflage cargo pants do not look good on anyone. Please take my warnings to heart as I really do know best and spare yourself future ridicule from your classmates about “the boy years”, it will scar you. On a similar note, try and make some more friends to greatly reduce your chance of receiving harassment and allow for less awkward times trying to find someone to sit with at lunch. However, do not lose yourself in order to make new friends. Keep rocking that Lord of the Rings jean jacket (obsession never goes out of style), keep trying to touch Mr. Dole’s mustache and achieve the impossible with all of your fingers still intact, pursue your love to read as it could become your future, remember that Girl Scouts is not lame and never quit as it earns you some big money in the future, and never stop Being Blythe (hint: make that the title of your seventh grade scrapbook). In short, little me, you are a strange young girl. However you will grow into your quirky demeanor and learn to embrace it. So keep up the good work, keep the hair growing, and keep out of the boy’s department. See you in seven years.

Love,

Almost eighteen-year-old Blythe

The First Second Hand

Lights. Lights so bright that they rivaled the stars on a perfectly black night. They illuminated the sweat dripping down the young patient’s face, dripping onto his new white shirt that his mother bought just for this occasion. He sat stiffly on the table with the white paper that ripped whenever he shifted nervously. He glanced around the white room, and wondered when someone would explain to him why they chose such an ugly color; so bland and emotionless save for a jubilant painting of children laughing which only made him more upset and uncomfortable. Finally, after watching the clock tick and his mother’s twiddling thumbs for what felt like hours, a group of people dressed in white coats walked into the room. He could see the eagerness etched on their faces and watched their lips move as their hands slapped together in what he knew as applause. For as long as he could remember, the young patient had made inferences about the world around him. Only guessing at the marvels that surrounded him yet never fully grasping the true sense of how others lived. He had longed for the day when he could once feel normal, like he belonged to this strange world full of silence. A world where he could let the chaos in his brain escape and fill the quiet exterior around him. To finally know noise. As he left his mind swirling with the implications of today, he looked up to see a nurse and her white teeth smiling at him. He understood a smile even without words. He smiled back, reassuring her that he felt ready. She reached over, brushing away his sandy blonde hair to find a new and improved ear. Click. The doctors smiled at him as they waited eagerly for him to start exploring the new world around him and said “Let’s have a second hand for our brave patient”. The young boy, rid of his deafness, heard his first sound; encouragement. He knew that the white of his hearing aid meant a new beginning.

Never Fully There

Today, dismally similar to most others, I take my seat in a number of different classes for a whole seven hours. My brain, try as it may, does not stand a chance against this test of time. My habitual lack of sleep and hatred to fully wake up does not allow full cognition from my brain unless jolted by the force of a pop quiz or a dreaded in class writing.  However even my brain does not always find these worthy causes to come out from underneath the covers and tackle the day. The day dreamer in my brain chooses today to wander and find interest in everything except for my very important lesson on probability. I stand no chance. He has already decided that the probability of focus rounds out to an approximate zero as he laughs in the face of math. Instead day dreamer notices the intricate details on the concrete wall behind the white board. Has that block always had so many cracks in it? And why do they paint it white? White, white board, math, focus. Yet again my mind slips and I wonder why anyone would wear that to school and they must feel so cold because of the snow and oh, look at the weather. Focus. The problems on the board have now changed and my brain claws at the walls of my head begging me to remember the crime show I watched last night and how realistic it seemed and what if a robber comes to my house and I should map an escape route: out my window, on the roof, jump into the snow, run. Run. I should run after school but I know I will not and now I feel lazy and when did we move to this problem? My day dreamer finds humor in my struggle to keep up and notes that I should focus…on how these problems relate to problems that I will help my kids with some day and we will live in a big house and now I have to name them and the bell rings. I look up to find that day dreamer has effortlessly won control of my focus during yet another class and I challenge him to a rematch which reminds me that I should probably play ping pong in commons. It starts again.